


Epiclesis

by PersianPenName



Series: Angst Bingo 2020 Prompts [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fondue, Food Kink, I know ch 2 is shorter but also I wrote it in one day and have no patience so, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, OH LOOK I'M WRITING AGAIN, Other, The 1941 Church Scene, The Arrangement Is A Marriage Contract And I Will Not Hear Otherwise, These Dumbasses Need To Learn To Communicate, canon-typical yearning, ch 2 is dialog heavy, idiots to lovers, oh shit I gotta think of a title, only took two and a half months, playing fast and loose with mythology and history, please brain let me start making words again?, they're Into It once they get used to the idea, unintentional dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersianPenName/pseuds/PersianPenName
Summary: Prompt: Angels can hear it when you pray to them. Crowley has been praying for 6000 years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Angst Bingo 2020 Prompts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908304
Comments: 32
Kudos: 191
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, GO Angst Bingo 2020, Smut Bingo 2021





	1. Chapter 1

Something Aziraphale had not known until after the Garden was that angels can hear when they are directly prayed to. He wasn’t sure if this was new, or something in the original design, since it hadn’t ever come up until a pair of humans were alone and warm in the wilderness, safe thanks to a flaming sword. He heard Eve’s sleepy voice as close as if she were whispering in his ear, _thank you, Angel, wherever you are_.

  
It happened semi-regularly, as human populations grew. When he learned to hide his wings and travel as one of them, he was pleased to see that incidence actually _increased_ , humans wishing well on their fellows just because they could. 

_I hope that nice man from the marketplace is doing okay._

_I hope that scribe enjoys the ink I made him._

_That fluffy-haired fellow had a long journey ahead of him, I hope he’s safe on the road._

_I hope. I hope. I hope._

It became something of a background noise after a while, if he was honest. A good one, one that filled him with warmth and love for humanity, but it took something out of the ordinary for him to notice a particular prayer. Something like a smoky sibilance, a hint of infernal heat and a voice from the first days saying his name.

_Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Would it feel like this if I touched you? Would you like it? Would you wrap me up in your wings?_

Aziraphale coughed around a mouthful of bread, looking around at his empty room. He was alone, reading a new set of clay tablets he’d picked up and having a bit of a snack while the rest of the city slept. Crawley was not with him, only his voice. Only his _prayer_.

_Aziraphale, angel, could I kiss you? Would you let me? What do your lips taste like, are they sweet?_

This was decidedly _not_ a prayer.

_Your hair looked so soft, could I touch it? Could I wrap you up in my coils and **squeeze**? You looked so soft, I want to eat you up, keep you safe inside me forever. _

_Mmm. Inside me. Ah! Oh, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, you feel so good._

Aziraphale felt his face go hot, and he took a hasty sip of his wine to cool himself, then double-checked his corporation. The only thing he was touching at the moment was his cup; no rogue demons were brushing up against him in secret, as far as he could tell.

_Oh yes, ah! Right there, right there, don’t stop Aziraphale. Wish these were your hands, your fingers. Want to touch you, kiss you, taste you. Want to feel you inside me, ohhhhhhh, just like that. Bless me, smite me, anything you like, Aziraphale, just don’t **stop!**_

  
He meant to tell Crawley the next time they ran into each other, he _did_ , but then he was watching the procession of animals board the ark and it just didn’t seem like the right moment. 

  
Really, he should have said something as they walked through the streets of Babel. Or in Egypt, sharing sweet beer and fish cooked in clay. Or in Gomorrah, where they complained about the local hospitality over cups of wine. In Greece, he wrapped his lips around grape leaves stuffed with spiced grain and dripping with olive oil, and heard it again.

_Shouldn’t have worn a cock today, angel, not if you’re going to be sucking on your fingers like that. I’d suck the taste of the oil from you, clean you with my tongue, crawl into your lap and let you use my mouth while you eat. Cock, cunt, anything, nothing, just let me get my lips on you, let me taste you, that’s the only meal I want. Let me pour oil between your thighs and bury myself there. Do you fuck like you eat? Have you tried it, angel? Bet you’d love it, you’d feel so good. Love watching you feel good, wanna make you feel good forever. You deserve it, every good thing, perfect, blessed angel. I’d love to watch your face as I fucked you, see how many times I can make those pretty lips moan for me. Bless it, Aziraphale, you’ll never know what you do to me._

If he sucked a little harder on the next dolma, hummed his appreciation a little louder, licked a long stripe up his wrist where the oil had dripped, well. Who would tell?

  
It became a bit of an indulgence, if he was being honest. He knew he should mention it, really he should, but it had been going on so _long_ now, and Crawley had been an angel, so probably he was already aware of it, right? Aziraphale was always the slow one, always the one who didn’t know quite what was going on, clever boots like Crawley probably knew all about it and just slipped up every once in a while.

Or maybe he was doing it on purpose? He was a demon, after all. A tempter, with his lovely yellow eyes and long, dark hair. The way those hips moved when he walked was definitely a temptation, how he stroked that long neck of his and displayed those delicate collarbones, he probably was doing it on purpose, wicked creature. Well, Aziraphale just wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, that was all. He could consider those wiles _thwarted_.

  
They went for oysters, in Rome. He showed Crowley how to move the flesh around in its shell, brought it to his lips and let the briny taste flood over his senses, tilted his head back and closed his eyes in rapture. He could _feel_ Crowley watching him from behind his glasses, and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the really excellent wine making him a bit bold. He scooted closer on the bench, until his thigh was almost touching the demon’s, and leaned well into his personal space.

“Here, my dear, let me?” He took Crowley’s hand in both of his, extended two of those long fingers and rested his own thick ones atop them, brought them to another shell. With the barest pressure, he directed them down into the slick flesh, moved them gently up and down through the salt and the wet, then higher to press tight little circles near the crux. “There, see?” he whispered, breath hot against Crowley’s ear, “make sure it’s nice and ready for you, and it’ll just slide… right in.” The tip of his finger dipped between Crowley’s, trailing brine through and between them, and he _pushed_ , just once, let the pad of his finger press deeper and slide against the space between the demon’s knuckles.

He brought his fingers to his lips, sucked them down to the base and slowly withdrew them. “Delicious.” He kept his eyes on Crowley’s as he pressed the shell against that red and yielding mouth. “Don’t you want to have a taste?”

The charged feeling in the air lasted through to Crowley’s first actual taste of the oyster. 

  
When he got back to his rooms that night, full of oysters and pleasantly flushed with wine, Aziraphale was still feeling bold. He and Crowley had laughed and drank and talked through most of the night, and the demon had even walked him to his door. Would he be back at his own quarters yet? Did he even have any, being so newly arrived in Rome?

Aziraphale removed his clothing carefully and laid down on his little-used bed. It shouldn’t be too long now, if their previous meals together were any indication.

_Oh you fucking bastard angel, are you trying to discorporate me?_

“I really hadn’t thought you’d dislike them that much, my dear boy. I thought they were quite lovely.” Bless Her for including prayer-hearing into angelic design. Crowley was once an angel; surely he can hear him too.

_Those sounds you make, fuck, I’ll never get enough of them._

“They’re for you, Crowley. All for you.” If he’s right, if he’s _right_ , then they can have this. 

_Bless it, angel, wish I could get those hands on me like I was one of those oysters. Is that what you like? Is that how you want me to touch you?_

He traced his hands over his chest, letting his thighs fall open. “Oh, yes, my darling, _yes_.”

As first times went, Aziraphale thought it was rather splendid.

In Wessex, Aziraphale wrapped a hand around his cock and whispered words of passion to the Black Knight, while Crowley described in detail the things they could be doing if they didn’t have to be out fomenting.

In 1020, almost a millennia after their first night, Aziraphale gave in to Crowley’s pleading, both verbal and not, and the Arrangement was signed. It was a bit different than most marriage contracts of the day, but they were an odd couple, so he figured it suited.

In Spain, it took him so long to locate Crowley because the demon had been shouting not at _him_ but at God. 

In 1601, he fluttered his eyelashes and silently asked _please, darling? For me?_ Crowley rolled his eyes and said Hamlet would be his treat. _You know I’d do anything for you._

In France, it had simply been too long since he’d seen his demon. He’d dressed up in his finest clothes, the precious little shoes he loved, had his valet style his hair most fetchingly, and then it had all fallen apart. He’d meant to court _Crowley_ , not danger! (Though the fact that handcuffs figured prominently in their post-rescue remote lovemaking session was quite a lovely bonus.)

In 1862, while fighting about holy water, Aziraphale made a grievous mistake. He panicked at the thought of an eternity without Crowley and referred to their relationship as _fraternizing_. He didn’t hear from his husband for almost a century after that, but he prayed to him every night.

  
In 1941, Crowley came back to him, hopping down the aisle to save him from Nazis. He was dashing, and handsome, and he’d saved Aziraphale’s _books!_ Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever loved him more. He was aware that he was staring rather shamelessly, drinking in Crowley’s profile as he sped around the rubble in the road. When they got to the bookshop, Aziraphale ushered him into the back room despite his protestations, brooking _no argument, my dear_ about seeing to his poor feet.

He sat Crowley down on his couch, the one that had waited for his return, and had a wineglass in his hand before the demon could even think about leaving.

Fetching a large basin of water and several soft cloths, as well as his old medic kit from the _last_ great war, he knelt with ease onto the floor. Crowley was silent now, taking a too-big gulp of wine, then looking at his glass in surprise. “This is good stuff, angel.”

“It ought to be.” Aziraphale carefully untied the thin laces, not looking up. “I was saving it for you. Had some in — oh, had to be just after the turn of the century I think. I know how you like a good madeira, so I picked up a few crates to set by.” Crowley’s ankles were so thin beneath his fingers, so delicate. He set his shoes beneath the side table, and considered his next move. “It’s fortunate you came by; I thought they might all go to vinegar before you had a chance to have some.” _I missed you. I missed you so much. Please don’t leave me like that again._

After removing the demon’s shoes, he moved slowly, folding up the cuffs of Crowley’s trousers with deliberation. He had been so _brave_ , risking consecrated ground for him, the least Aziraphale could do was show him how much he cared. He bared Crowley’s legs to the knees, letting his hands slide down his calves to unclip his sock garters. He could tell the thin wool was stuck to the skin beneath, so he carefully lowered them into the basin. As they soaked, he rested his forehead against one leg, idly tracing his fingers up and down the demon’s shins. If this was the only chance he got to touch him, Aziraphale was going to take all he could get.

_This isn’t how I wanted to get you on your knees, angel._

“Are you very attached to these?” He gently raised one calf, petting down the top of Crowley’s foot.

“I… do like having feet, yeah.”

Aziraphale felt himself smiling into Crowley’s skin, shoulders shaking a bit with laughter. That blasted, beautiful creature. He risked an upward look, wishing he could see Crowley’s eyes. His face was streaked with dust, brows soft, and he was pink to the very tips of his ears. “I meant the _socks_ , my dear. Do you mind if I cut them off?”

_If that’s what it takes to have you undress me, you can tear the whole outfit to ribbons._

Lord, he wanted to kiss him so badly, the pesky wretch. 

He carefully peeled the first sock away, and winced at the black and blistered skin. “Do you think you could stand a bit of healing? I know it hurts, but it —”

“Nnnnnggyeah. Do it. S'fine.” Crowley took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then took a deep breath and nodded. Aziraphale let some of his divine radiance flow out through his fingertips, let it sing love and wholeness into that precious demonic flesh, and if he was thinking more of his own love than Hers, well, what of it?

In his hands, Crowley’s foot was covered in pink, unbroken skin, thin and soft as a babe’s. Aziraphale glanced up to find Crowley blinking in confusion.

“That’s — different. You did something different this time.” He flexed his bare foot. “It didn’t hurt so much. What’d you do, angel?”

Aziraphale frowned. He hadn’t _done_ anything unusual, even if he was thinking of— _oh_. “Let me, let me try the other first. I think…” At Crowley’s nod, Aziraphale let his power flow out again, this time using only his own feelings of love. The cracks in Crowley’s foot drew closed, the redness and swelling reduced, the crisped skin falling away to dust to reveal the new. Aziraphale dipped his hand into the water again to be sure he’d gotten it all off, and Crowley gaped at him.

“Nothing! Well I mean, not _nothing_ , tingled like anything, pins and needles through the whole thing, but that’s it! _What did you do?_ ”

Aziraphale smiled, a sound escaping him somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Crowley, I’m an idiot.”

“Knew _that_ , angel, I was at the Bastille same as you.”

“Shut it. I mean this whole time — I’ve been healing you with _Divine Love!_ Oh, my darling, no wonder it hurt you.” He ignored the strangled sound from the demon on the couch. “All this time, and I could have just done it with how much _I_ love you, and saved you all that.” He pressed a kiss into Crowley’s knee, and raised his eyes to his husband. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I should’ve thought of it ages ago.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide and yellow, mouth hanging open in shock.

_“You what?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really happy to get this prompt, because I also submitted it. I hadn't had a plan when I did, then this smutty little idea popped up, and here we are! It's gonna get Even Spicier in the second chapter ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two idiots learn to talk

Aziraphale was kneeling on the floor between Crowley’s legs (a position that had featured prominently in the demon’s fantasies), running his hands up and down Crowley’s bare calves. His eyes were wide and apologetic, that blue-grey-green of a summer storm, and he was shaking his head fondly.

“I said I was using Divine Love, when I —”

“You… _me???_ ” He couldn’t get the words out. He tried, and the only thing to fall out of his throat was a pile of consonants wrapped in a brick.

Aziraphale frowned. “Don’t be absurd, you’re my _husband_ , you know damned well how I—”

_“Husband!?”_

“Well, and wife sometimes, I suppose. Spouse? Partner? Significant other?”

“Bu— I’m not— We haven’t even _kissed!_ ”

“What are you talking about, of course we have. We kissed all the time in Rome, in Persia, that time in France...”

“Those are hello kisses! Not — I mean — like _kiss_ kiss, like a proper kiss. Never have.” His hands were flailing in the air, and if he’d felt able to stand he knew he’d be pacing.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Darling we’ve _talked_ about this, you _know_ —”

“ _No we bloody well have not!_ You don’t think I’d remember talking about, about—?” He was tugging at his hair in frustration. “Just… stop. Slow down. I need a moment here.”

Aziraphale huffed slightly, but nodded. He began to pack up his medical kit, then frowned at Crowley’s bare feet. “You’re going to need socks.” A few minutes later, the basins were in the kitchenette, two more wine bottles were on the table, and a thick pair of cream and blue argyle socks sat next to Crowley on the sofa.

Crowley had put his glasses back on, needing that bit of distance. He took another sip of wine, the wine Aziraphale had saved _for him_.

“So.”

“So.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“This a… general sort of thing? One of those _oh I’m an angel, I love everything_ sort of deals?”

“Well, I mean I _do_ , yes. That too.”

“Sssssso you also… in, in a more, _nnnggh_ … _r-romantic_ sort of way?”

“Yes, of course.”

“ _Of course, oh, of course, well!_ Even though you’ve never _said._ ” He pointed accusingly with his wineglass.

Aziraphale glowered back. “I’ve said! I’ve said it plenty!”

“Name _one time_.”

“Every blasted night for the last _eighty years!_ ”

“It doesn’t _count_ if I’m not _here!_ ”

“Well you haven’t _been here!_ ”

“And whose bloody fault is that, Mr. _Fraternizing?_ ”

Silence stretched out between them, tense and angry. Aziraphale sighed and slumped a bit in his chair. “I don’t want to fight with you, Crowley.”

Crowley just nodded, arms crossed over his stomach.

“I’ve missed you quite a lot, you know.”

The demon took another drink of his wine.

“Have you… have you really been ignoring my prayers all this time?” Aziraphale twisted his ring back and forth on his pinky, and stared at his hands.

Crowley finally looked over at him. “What?” He knew he was making a dumb face, he _knew it_ , but couldn’t seem to help himself. He’d never been able to keep up his cool facade around the angel.

“My _prayers_ , Crowley. To you?” He was looking at Crowley like he was supposed to know what he was talking about, but the demon kept coming up blank.

“Aziraphale, I’m a _demon_ ,” Crowley said slowly. “You don’t _pray_ to demons, what would be the point?”

Aziraphale frowned, ancient facts struggling to reorder themselves.

“I mean I guess you could _summon_ one, if you wanted, but that’s gone out of style mostly. Annoying as all heaven, that was.”

Could Crowley _really_ not hear him?

“— just be going about your day, having a nice nap, then all of a sudden the ground’s opening up and it’s a quick trip through Hell’s routing department —”

If he couldn’t _hear_ him, then why on earth had he agreed to be married? Pressed for it, in fact?

“— and it’s _always_ sticky, I don’t know why it has to always be so _sticky_ , all’s you need is the chalk really, there’s no call to go splashing all that blood around —”

“Crowley, did you honestly not know that I can hear it when you pray to me?”

“— swallow things whole, why would I want all that blood— wait, what?” He was lounging across the sofa now, trying to look at ease, but spine a little less liquid than normal.

“Your prayers, Crowley. I can hear them. I… had thought you could hear mine, as well.”

“Angel. I’m a demon. I don’t _pray_ ,” The lie rolled off his tongue with ease of long practice. “Why on earth would I want to talk to _Her?_ ”

“Well, you’ve certainly called out to Her enough when we’re— ohhhh, _bugger_.”

Crowley felt a niggling worm of suspicion begin to rouse itself, somewhere deep inside.

“Crowley, I’m afraid I’ve rather been invading your privacy.” Aziraphale was staring into his wine glass as if it held answers. “When you, ah. After dinners, and such.”

The worm became a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“When you… think of me. When you’re alone.”

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

“Yes, just like that!”

Crowley buried his face in his hands. _Shit. Shit. Bugger shit fuck, fucking thrice-damned **angel** fucking hearing bloody **prayers**. S’not prayers! I’m not praying! Fuck, fuck, fuck, quit bloody talking to yourself you useless excuse for a demon! Bloody **Hell** doesn’t leave your head alone, why would Heaven? Fuck fuck fuck fuck!_

His head whipped up, and he stared at the angel. _Oh fuck, he’s heard every filthy thought I’ve ever had about him. Every time we ate together, watching him wrap his lips around his dessert._ “You kept inviting me out.”

Aziraphale had two bright spots of color on his cheeks, and he wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eye. “Yes, well. It was a bit of a surprise at first, I’ll admit, but not… unpleasant.”

“You liked it. I’d take you out to eat and think dirty thoughts at you, _and you liked it_.”

“Well I rather thought we _both_ did, was the thing.”

“Ngk.” He knew. He knew everything. 

“But I see now, of course, that it was _terribly_ rude of me, you weren’t able to consent to any of it!”

He knew how Crowley wanted to touch him, to taste him, to tease all those little sounds from him…

“All this time I thought we were having a co-equal relationship, and really I was just _eavesdropping_ like some terrible _voyeur!_ I’m so sorry, my dear.”

He knew how Crowley wanted to press kisses into the soft skin of his belly, bite into his thighs, how he sometimes thought of taking him as a _serpent_ , for Satan’s sake!

“— so I really think the best thing is just to, to start over, as it were. All cards on the table. Just be friends for a bit, and see how things progress from there.”

Crowley stood up abruptly. With a wave, his hat and shoes were back on, his trousers rolled down to his ankles once more. He mumbled something about the air raid sirens having stopped, and in a flash he was out the door. 

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re still not wearing any socks, you daft little snake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we're going to have at least 3 parts, sorry. I got 1800 words in before fizzling out tonight, but the last 300 or so are the start of them reconciling all this. My dear spouse Kennesaw came up with just the thing I need to move them forward, but I need to let it percolate a little.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale hadn’t heard from Crowley for several weeks, which wasn’t unusual when Crowley was feeling embarrassed.He was sitting at his desk one afternoon, working on some pressing paperwork[1] when the telephone rang. 

“A. Z. Fell & Co., Mr. Fell speaking.”

“Angel.”

His heart sped up, as it always did when he heard that voice. “Ah, Crowley. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Listen, I’ve got some work coming up, so I’m going to be out of London for a while. Just wanted to, you know. Let you know.” There was a long silence. “I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you or anything.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” he breathed, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. “Of course, my dear. I’ve been kept rather busy myself lately.”

“Nnnyeah, well. I, uh. Wondered. Can’t _call_ , you know. And letters are shit.”

Aziraphale found himself twisting the cord of the telephone around his finger as he listened.

“So I thought, uh… maybe, if you wouldn’t mind, you know? I could… talk. To you. Sometimes.”

Lord, he was adorable when he was nervous. Which was, to be fair, most of the time. “Of course you can, do you mean…” he reviewed his options, “by telegraph, then?”

_I mean like this, angel._

Oh, he had almost forgotten how good it felt, to hear that voice right by his hear. His heard fluttered, and a familiar warmth surged through him. “ _Oh_ , yes, I see. Of course.” He cleared his throat, and eased a finger in to loosen his bow tie just a bit. “I would be… amenable.”

“Is there, um. Do you have a way, to, to tell me, if you… _weren’t_ amenable?”

Aziraphale held up a finger, forgetting momentarily that Crowley couldn’t see him. “One moment, my dear. Do stay on the line, won’t you? I want to try something.”

Deep in the recesses of the bookshop, or rather the flat _above_ the bookshop where he kept his snuffboxes and clothes that could no longer be repaired or had gone far enough out of style that even _he_ wouldn’t wear them, Aziraphale had a box. It was small, made of dark lacquered wood and lined with red silk, and beneath the silk it was carved with sigils and wards to keep it from being noticed by any creatures celestial or infernal, save two. It was a dangerous box to have.

Inside, next to an empty oyster shell and a handful of apple seeds, beneath a couple links of mail and a snake-headed torque and a single black silk glove, was an old stone idol. It was a woman with the head of a serpent, nursing a child. Dark wings covered her back like a cloak, and while the goddess-with-child pose had been quite a common one at the time, Aziraphale had always fancied that this one felt more _protective_ than other models, held the child just that bit tighter.

He cleared away a spot on his desk, shuffling around some half-drunk cups of tea and a few stacks of books, and set up the idol in front of a stub of candle that may have been there since before gas lamps came into fashion. He lit the candle, leaned in close, and whispered, “Crowley?”

A distinct _“Ah, fuck!”_ came from the telephone receiver, where it sat on the other side of the desk.

He put the phone back to his ear. “So that worked, then? You could hear me? And not just through the telephone, I mean.”

“Satan, Aziraphale, how did you do that? Haven’t felt something like that since — wait, did you — do you have an _idol?_ Of _me?_ ”

“I _do!_ ” Aziraphale wiggled happily in his chair. “It’s from when you were masquerading as that midwife figure, what was the name, Ishassara?”

“Ashtoreth, and how did you even know about that?”

“Funny story, really, I was actually sent to _thwart_ you there, but you were doing so much _good_ in the region I just… didn’t have the heart.”

“Bite your tongue! I was being proper evil there, angel. False idols. Seducing folks away from Her and all that.”

“Your villages had hardly anyone lost to childbirth, and practically _no_ infant mortality, my dear.”

“Well they weren’t going to go and start worshiping a false god who couldn’t _give_ them anything, now were they?” Aziraphale could practically hear the demon squirming through the phone line. “Besides, can’t go and choose to be wicked if you kick it before you know what’s what, now can you?”

“You’re downright diabolical, my dear.”

“Damn right I am.”

A companionable silence settled over them for a long moment, Aziraphale smiling down at the little idol and stroking a finger down its scaled head, before Crowley cleared his throat.

“So, uh. Yeah. I’ve got to head out now, souls to tempt and all that, but if… if you need to reach me, well. Seems you can.” _And for Satan’s sake, be careful with that thing, will you? Don’t need you getting caught with a blasted Altar to Crowley now do we?_

Aziraphale very pointedly did not think of a very dangerous box. “Of course, my dear. Mind how you go.”

* * *

The messages weren’t long, to start with. Just things like _made it to the continent okay_ , or _why the fuck is Russia so damned cold? S’excessive is what it is._

_There’s a woman here, makes these jam tarts, you’d like them. Might pick up a few when I’m headed back._

_Saw someone selling icons of the archangels, put a stupid moustache on old Gabe. Hope it catches on._

_Wine’s shit but the vodka is GOOD, angel!_

As the weeks progressed, Crowley’s messages began to turn, angry and bitter and sad. _Fighting’s gotten here. More bombs and things. Ground’s all torn to shit._

_Won’t be able to get you jam tarts after all, whole family’s gone now._

_People are hungry, angel. There’s only so much I can do without getting caught._

_I’m so glad you’re not here for this. Gotta be bad enough back in London._

_Does war bring out the worst in them, angel? Or is it the other way round?_

_I’m so tired, Aziraphale. Wish I could sleep until it’s all over._

_I miss you._

_I miss you._

_I miss you._

  
The weeks turned into months, until over a year had passed. They’d gone longer than that without seeing each other, of course, _much_ longer in recent memory even, but Aziraphale found he missed Crowley in a different way when he knew the demon couldn’t hear his little errant thoughts. He’d set up the idol on his nightstand, talking to it every evening while he changed into his pyjamas and settled on the bed for his nightly reading and final cup of tea. 

“How was your day, my dear? Get any good tempting done?”

_Ugh. I don’t wanna talk about it._

“Of course, darling. Did I tell you, I’ve started reading—”

_It’s just the fucking children, it’s not fair for them, you know?_

“Oh dear heart, I know.”

_They’re so **hungry** , angel, and there’s only so much food I can miracle without drawing attention. I’m only getting away with this much because I can say I’m tempting them to fight over it. For the most part they’re fine with letting the kids have it, though, so that’s something. _

Aziraphale let him talk. It didn’t take much, these days, and he could hear how much lighter Crowley sounded after sharing his troubles. The pain wasn’t gone, of course — not while he was still firmly enmeshed in its source — but it was easier to bear, and if that was all he could offer his demon for the moment then he would thank Her for the opportunity.

When Crowley finally admitted to being tired, Aziraphale would read to him. It didn’t matter what, Crowley had said, it just helped to hear his voice as he drifted off. When he was sure Crowley was asleep, Aziraphale would close his book, take the idol in his hands, and whisper.

“You are so loved, Crowley. You are so wonderful and precious to me. I love how much you care about the humans, especially the children. You’re so good with them, dearest. You are kind, and thoughtful, and more genuinely good than so many souls I’ve met, and I love you so very much. I wish that I could be with you now, to hold you and offer you comfort. I miss you most dreadfully, you know. I miss your smile, and the way your eyes light up when you think up a good bit of mischief. I miss having dinner with you and coming back to the shop for a nightcap, I miss seeing you sitting in whatever ridiculous manner you fancy on the couch across from me. When this dreadful war is over, I want to spend days and days just basking in your company. Rest well, my darling boy; tomorrow will be one day closer to when I can see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 Otherwise known as forging passports and other documents — Heaven may have forbidden him from using miracles to influence the war, but he was still a very skilled book restorer, and as it so happened those skills came in handy for a variety of tasks. [return to text]
> 
> Yes, okay, clearly I am adding another chapter after this one. I tried to make this a smutty chapter and these soft boys just insisted on being soft.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, smutty flashback for no good reason

Scandinavia, some time in the 1600s.

Crowley leaned forward, dipping her bread fork into the cheese-and-wine concoction she’d recently come to enjoy. The cheese was subtly sweet, the wine and spices bringing out a depth of flavor that complemented the nuttiness of the bread and elevated it to an _Aziraphale-worthy_ meal. Crowley could almost picture it, how he’d lean forward to breathe in the smell of it, the look of bliss when the first taste hit his tongue, the sounds he would make — oh Satan, the _sounds!_ She dipped another piece of bread into the pot of broth and brought it to her lips, letting it melt in her mouth. _It would taste like this, if I kissed you after each bite._ Leaning back on her elbow, she sipped at her glass of brandy, letting the tingle of the alcohol spread through her blood, and felt a warm throb of arousal in her groin. 

_Wish you were here, angel. I’d feed you each bit by hand, suck brandy from your fingertips, let you lick it off my skin._ Beginning to lose herself in the fantasy, she tipped her head back and let her nails travel lightly down her throat. _You’d moan so sweet for me, angel. You’d look so soft and lovely, letting me take care of you._ She bit her lip lightly and let her robe fall open, pinching and pulling at a nipple. 

_When you finished with your meal, I’d lay you down in the blankets with me and just touch you all over. Those thighs, those arms, that chest! I’d have to taste you, kiss that lovely skin and suck your pretty cock. Have you got a cock today, angel? Bet you have. Bet it’s thick and lovely, just like you._ With a wave, Crowley summoned her favorite toy, a thick jade phallus just the blue-grey-green of Aziraphale’s eyes. She let the head ease gently between her labia, teasing up and down her cunt and slicking it with her own fluids. 

_Just lay back and let me take care of you,_ she prayed, _I’ll do all the work for you, ride your cock so well for you, make you feel so good. Oh, Aziraphale, Aziraphale!_ She’d sunk down onto the toy, letting it slowly work her open, other arm braced on the low table as she lifted her hips and came back down, slow and deep and _so fucking thick_. Her eyes were closed tightly, mouth slightly open on a moan as she moved up and down, the hand holding the toy now thrusting it up into her aching cunt, her desire to fuck herself slowly and build up to a powerful orgasm warring with the desire to just slam into herself hard and fast. Her hand sped up, hard and fast overtaking her like it often did, and it was _good, so good, angel, fuck, fuck!_

And there was a knock at her door.

Growling, Crowley considered ignoring it, but telling whoever was bothering her to fuck off would probably be quicker than waiting for them to get tired of knocking, and she could try to get back to it. Clenching a bit to keep the toy in place, she jerked her robe shut and the door open, ready to unleash her wrath on whatever unsuspecting idiot was interrupting her.

A very damp angel stood outside her door. She felt herself pulse once around the toy, before her brain caught up with the rest of her. “Aziraph— angel, what— why are you all wet?” _Great. A+. Quality words making. Talking. **Fuck.**_

“Because it’s been raining for _seven hours_ and I have been walking in it for six of them,” Aziraphale snapped, “Now may I come in and dry off or do I have to walk all the way to town?” 

Crowley stood mutely aside and let Aziraphale in. He hung up his cloak and hat on a set of hooks by the door Crowley wasn’t entirely certain she’d always had, then raised an eyebrow at the nest of blankets beside the table and the fire.

“What? It’s cold.”

“You might be a bit warmer if you were actually wearing anything.” Aziraphale gave her dark robe a slow up and down, one halfway between disapproval and something she would have called _appreciative_ on anyone else.

Crowley made a rude noise, but waved a hand and let her robe melt into a shift and breeches — realizing only after that she _still had a stone cock in her to the hilt._ Fuck. Would Aziraphale notice if she sent it away? She was just about to risk it, when the first moans of pleasure hit her ears.

Aziraphale was leaning over her table by the fondue pot, eyes closed, finger in his mouth. Crowley’s mouth went dry, and she let her hand fall, felt her clit throb once in agreement.

Ohhhhhh, she was a _terrible creature._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been *checks watch* oh, _two and a half months_ since I posted anything, has it? Fuck, how do words again?
> 
> Trying to get myself back into the swing of writing with an indulgent little smut chapter. It didn't go where I thought it was gonna, but I like it!


End file.
